Saturday, June 16, 2018


To be an old poet is to be young.

Youth is old poetry.


Gray clouds on a locomotive’s back,
A cry at every crossing.

A penny on the track.

The price for what cannot be.

Warm, the scent of bare skin in summer.

Ripe peaches, whispering to each other on the table.

And that is how the first kiss came to be.

Old poetry.


Stream Source said...

... the sweet juice is running down my chin.

Lovely, thank you.

William Michaelian said...

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: thank you, too.